


Shirts and Socks

by inbox



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Alcohol, Christmas, Christmas Presents, M/M, Presents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-05
Updated: 2017-12-05
Packaged: 2018-02-15 20:39:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2242800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inbox/pseuds/inbox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Tear the paper off," said Arcade, his tone tinged with a faint trace of self consciousness. "At this rate I'll be an old man before you finish unwrapping it."</p><p>"You're already old," said Boone, ignoring Arcade's directive. "I don't get many presents. Lemme enjoy it."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shirts and Socks

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted 2014-09-02, tweaked and updated 2017-12-06

The tiny little bar deep inside Vault 21 wasn't the most convivial spot on the Strip to have a drink. It was more sterile and unwelcoming than atmospheric and inviting, but it was quiet and cool and private, three things Arcade Gannon valued highly. The only other people there were gamblers deep into their cups and a morose bartender who didn't care for conversation. It was an ideal spot to get away from the Lucky 38, and far away from curious eyes and gossiping mouths.  
  
He and Boone regularly met up there for drinks, and frequently more. Ms Weintraub made a point of renting her rooms at a reasonable rate to the nice ol' doctor who made the occasional private house call when the medical need arose. She didn't gossip about him, he didn't gossip about her; it was even-handed give and take at its most simple.  
  
"Tinsel," said Arcade, opening his wallet to rifle through the small cache of NCR bills he had at hand. "I distinctly remember tinsel."  
  
"Huh." Boone beat him to the punch, dumping a handful of caps on the bar and nodding at the bartender to include a generous scoop of ice. "Don't worry about it. My round."  
  
"If you insist." He propped his elbows on the bar and watched the bartender slosh a generous amount of mash whisky into his glass. "Not much tinsel, if I'm going to be honest. It was a bit threadbare by the time I showed up."  
  
"Never had it as a kid. We didn't really do the old world stuff. Read the bible. Got a piece of fruit if I was good."  
  
"And if you were bad?"  
  
"Heh. More bible reading." Boone took a long slug of his beer, and wiped his mouth with the back of hand. "Why? You got plans?"  
  
Arcade snorted. "Hardly. Isn't this festive enough?" He pointed at the beaten and bent snowflake ornament hanging from the ceiling, a lone decoration that had clearly seen better centuries. "Behold, 'tis the season."  
  
"Used to have some ornaments in Novac. A little Guadalupe made out of seashells, paper poinsettias, stuff like that." He picked up his beer then thought better of it. "Dunno where they are now. I probably..."  
  
He trailed off and stared at his beer, and if he'd been a man prone to sighing, Arcade would've bet the entire house that Boone at that moment let out a sigh worthy of the great poets.   
It wasn't hard to guess where that 'probably' was heading. He'd been inside Boone's old room once, Courier at his side saying  _he won't mind, what he doesn't know won't hurt him_  as the door opened to a messy dark room that reeked of stale regret. The seashells and paper flowers were probably shredded apart and thrown away, or broken underfoot, or culled in an effort to move on.   
  
He didn't really know what had happened there in that room, or Novac. He rarely visited that bump on the highway and when he did, he stuck to being shepherded around by his ornery aunt. He guessed it was a nasty divorce, or the mundane sadness of drifting apart. He probably didn't want, or need, to know. It didn't seem like it was his business to get that deep into Boone's affairs, regardless of anything else they might be doing with and to each other.  _Keep it light_ , he reminded himself.  _Keep it easy_.  
  
"Anyway," Arcade said abruptly, steering the conversation away from the reefs and shoals of maudlin sentimentality. "I got you something." He blindly patted the stool beside him and picked up the object that had resting on it out of sight and out of mind all night, handing it over with a small flourish.  
  
Boone took the parcel with a small degree of caution, turning it over and over in his hands as if inspecting it for hidden traps. It wasn't the best wrapping job Arcade had ever done, but sheets of salvaged Followers medical charts tacked together with electrical worked well enough to hide his gift.  
  
"Huh."  
  
Arcade raised an eyebrow. "Are you expecting something bad?"  
  
"Nah," said Boone, putting it on the bar top and carefully wedging his pinkie under a loose edge, working it free with the minimum amount of tearing. "You just took me by surprise."

"It's been on the seat beside me all night. You moved it when you came in."  
  
Arcade could tell that Boone was rolling his eyes. He could  _sense_  it.  
  
"Not like that." He started on another piece of ersatz wrapping paper. "Wasn't expecting, y'know, a present."  
  
As tempting as it was to launch into a suitably self effacing  _aww shucks_  routine, Arcade decided to err on the side of silence. Maybe he'd made a tactical misstep. Boone was simultaneously easy to read and impenetrably opaque, 'specially when it came to matters that erred on the more personal side of things. Lavishing him with a gift seemed like a good idea at the time, but god knows most bad ideas seem brilliant without the benefit of hindsight.  
  
"Tear it open," said Arcade, his tone tinged with a faint trace of self consciousness. "At this rate I'll be an old man before you finish unwrapping it."  
  
"You're already old," said Boone, ignoring Arcade's directive. "I don't get many presents. Lemme enjoy it."  
  
"If it's not right then, uh, I'll swap it. Or keep it."  
  
" _Gannon_."  
  
Arcade decided to take the hint, focusing instead on the swirl and tumble of ice shining smooth in his whisky, rolling the glass back and forth on the bar top until it left a wet zigzag of condensation on the worn wood.  
  
Maybe he was just getting extra sentimental lately. The impending threat of horrible death by crazed pseudo-Romans probably did that to a man.  
  
Beside him Boone finally gave in to the temptation to tear open his gift, ripping the paper apart with his thumbs. He whistled through his teeth, lifting out the goods inside for inspection.  
  
"Tshirts," said Arcade unnecessarily. "And socks. New ones."  
  
"Tshirts and socks," Boone repeated, mostly to himself. He turned inside out the collar of the first shirt on the pile, looking at the MADE IN NCR stamp bleeding ink onto the unbleached cotton, mottled brown and beige, and rubbed the fabric between his fingertips. "Huh."  
  
"Don't get too excited," said Arcade, seeking refuge in the bottom of his glass. "Standard issue from the rag trader. And socks. Lily insisted."  
  
Boone inspected those too, three pairs of sturdy brown socks knitted in tight even rows.  
  
"What do you get the man who has everything? I figured you had enough grenades." Arcade risked a sideways glance; Boone was still occupied staring at the bundle of clothes with an unreadable expression. "But, y'know. Shirts and socks. Everyone needs shirts and socks."  
  
_Stop saying shirts and socks, you idiot,_  he told himself, and drained the rest of his whisky.  
  
"That's the…" Boone paused, and shook his head. "Shit, Gannon. This is the nicest thing anyone's done for me this year."  
  
"You're welcome? Maybe?"  
  
Boone neatly piled up his new clothes and folded the wrapping paper back up, sealing it with a loose edge of tape. He turned it a little, the paper catching on the wooden bar as he worried at a folded corner of paper with his thumb, pushing it back and forth over and over again.  
  
"Bad idea?" Arcade pushed up his glasses and offered Boone an uncertain smile. "I'll take that as a swing and a miss then. I'm not good at the whole--," He lifted his glass to make air quotes, then thought better of it. "--season of giving thing."

"Nah," said Boone eventually. "No. Just... wasn't expecting it." To Arcade's eternal surprise he reached over and caught his hand in his own, squeezing his fingers for a brief moment before letting go. "Thanks," he said, gruff and short and shaded with embarrassment.  
  
"Don't go getting all sentimental on me," said Arcade, making a game save at lifting the mood. "It was for my own sanity. Everything you own has holes in it and I have standards to maintain."  
  
"Yeah," said Boone, hiding a small smile of his own behind his beer bottle. "Standards. That what you're calling it?"  
  
"Standards," said Arcade again, before lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "I only undress the best."  
  
Boone rolled his eyes at that, but his amusement was palpable. "I didn't get you anything."  
  
"Don't worry about it." Arcade caught the bartender's eye and nodded for a fresh round of drinks. "It was an impulse idea."  
  
"Yeah, but." Boone made a  _y'know_  gesture, trying to express the give and take of gifting obligation in a wave of his hand. "Don't have to, but... I'd like to."  
  
"You'd like to do a lot of things."  
  
"Don't make things easy, do you?" His good natured tone offset the bite of his words, and Boone punctuated his sentence by draining his beer and putting the bottle down on the bar with a little too much emphasis.  
  
"Never. There's no fun in making things easy." He fished out his wallet and laid down a worn ten dollar NCR bill as their drinks arrived. "Don't, uh, get the wrong idea about the gift. It was an impulsive idea. You know, spur of the moment."  
  
"Gannon." Boone reached over again, his hand warm on Arcade's knee, hidden from view by the overhang of the bar. "Don't overthink it."  
  
"You're welcome." Arcade picked up his whisky and took a sip. "You know," he said eventually. "I know what you can get me for a present if you're so wracked by seasonal guilt."  
  
"Well, I'm not much good at reading the bible," said Boone, his hand a little higher on Arcade's thigh. "So that's out."  
  
Arcade told him, his voice pitched low enough that even the bartender couldn't overhear them, and when he was done he took great pride in the flush spreading across Boone's cheeks.  
  
"Yeah," said Boone after a moment, his ears burning cherry red. "Yeah. That's... that'll do nicely. Why do I think you've got a room key already?"  
  
"I'm always prepared," said Arcade grandly, collecting his whisky glass and sliding off the barstool in a motion that was almost graceful. "You can model your new shirts and socks for me. Or just take them off, either works. 'Tis the season, Craig."  
  
"Yeah," said Boone, and for just a moment he looked supremely amused. "'Tis."


End file.
